


Asclepius

by levendis



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Homoeroticism, M/M, Other, Plant-touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 17:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19300648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: "Okay, so, uh, in the beginning, in the Garden, there was a - well, he was a wily old serpent, and I was technically on apple tree duty -"





	Asclepius

  
  
One of these days there would be words invented to describe this emotion, chief among them 'anxious', but for now Aziraphale settled on feeling slightly out of sorts.  
  
"It's an honor," Gabriel insisted. "I cannot stress enough how important of a job this is."  
  
"Job," Aziraphale repeated uncertainly. Uncertainty, how...unbefitting, for an Angel. He hoped it didn't show.  
  
A window cracked open between them: the Garden, in miniature, verdant and lush. The sands outside.  
  
Gabriel gestured. "Take your time," he said, somewhat impatiently.  
  
"And when it's over?" Aziraphale tucked his wings close together. The flush of him knitted inexpertly down; a plain tunic as cover.  
  
"Easy-peasy." Gabriel grinned with at least five of his mouths, wheels spinning in cold precision. "Just make like a tree and _leaf._ "

 

* * *

  
  
It's simple, ish. Certainly fewer moving parts than other forms. How difficult could it be, really, to be a tree. He settles into his roots and wraps himself in bark. Solid, unyielding. An appropriate amount of leaves shaken out and left to bask in the harsh sunlight. He makes shade in which things might grow; where fledgling humanity might take a nap, or stare blankly into space. He waits.  
  
Sometimes humanity sits, and sometimes humanity stands. Sometimes they walk in circles, or accidentally bump into each other. He basks in his love for them; he even finds things to admire about them. Their physicality, their simplicity, how they seem assured of the ground beneath their feet. The grace of them, pure and uncomplicated.  
  
The underbrush rustles, sometimes. He can't tell how far into the day it's been before he catches a glimpse of eyes, glowing reflective in the dark. Nor how long after that it is before the creature emerges, slithering languidly towards him. Black and red and almost imposing. Intelligent, possibly. The Serpent manages to look as bored as Aziraphale feels. Boredom, surely that's not right - this is a very important job, after all. He settles back into his roots and waits.  
  
Humanity isn't afraid, not yet. The Serpent wriggles past where they're sprawled carelessly on the moss, undulating over them and. On to him.  
  
_Oh._ Well. He's not bored anymore, at least. The thing is - the thing is. He's never been touched before, you see. Not knowingly, not with intent. The smoothness of the scales sliding over his trunk, the pressure of lean muscle curling around his branches - there is no breeze but his leaves shudder anyway, growing a touch greener, a hair broader.  
  
And the Serpent pauses, and looks up at him inquisitively. "You've forgotten the apple," it says.  
  
Oh. Oh! Of course. Aziraphale concentrates very hard, and stretches all of his Angelic energy throughout himself, from root-end to leaf-tip, and with a proverbial grunt produces a single, dismal crabapple.  
  
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," says the Serpent.

 

* * *

  
  
This will be known as "panic", later on - Aziraphale flicks the Serpent off (it bounces into the wilderness with a yelp) and slips first into ephemerality and then into his practiced Earthly form and then runs. Not particularly swiftly or gracefully, but with some urgency. He runs and he runs and then he stumbles, tilted headfirst until he hits the wall. The stone is hot and unforgiving against his palms, the air is too still, this body is too small -  
  
"Stay away," he calls out, voice unacceptably shaky. He turns, swallows, puffs his wings out and produces the Sword with a barely-earned flourish.  
  
The Serpent slips out of a thorn bush, unperturbed.  
  
"I have a sword," Aziraphale says.  
  
"I can see that," the Serpent responds. "Oh, for Hell's sake - " It rears up, and slips easily into personhood. Demonhood. Human-shaped, anyway, not that there's much to go on as of yet. "S'everthing alright?"  
  
Aziraphale does his best to look impressive. "Stand _back_ , foul Demon."  
  
He has the temerity to laugh. "Oh, come off it. We're both here for the same reason. We're basically co-workers. You do the tree, I do the snake, the humans do the You Know, we go our separate ways. It's not that deep."  
  
"Not that -" Aziraphale huffs, but lowers his sword. Stage-whispering: "This is where it starts! This is God's Plan!"

"If that helps," says the demon.

"It's her Ineffable Plan and I am being Counted On and. And I'm not - I'm not doing a very good job of it, am I?"  
  
The demon, this creature - it is _unfair_ how pretty a monster can be, he'll write a sternly-worded letter one of these days - this red and black and temptingly beautiful boy steps forward. Charming, tentative, tentatively charming and vice-versa. "Performance anxiety, happens to the best of us. I'm Crawley, by the way."  
  
"Aziraphale," says Aziraphale reluctantly, his own name sounding odd in these ears. He slips the Sword back into his pocket. He hadn't really meant to use it, anyway. How could he? Here, of all places, how could he?  
  
"Aziraphale," Crawley repeats, and it sounds even stranger - but that's a demon's voice for you. "Shall we try again? You can pop back whenever you're ready. Promise I won't look."  
  
Aziraphale glares, and Crawley dramatically covers his eyes with his hands, and they try again.

 

* * *

  
  
The humans are asleep, as they usually are, as there's nothing much else for them to do. Crawley sits on the ground, sifting thorns out of his coal-black feathers and burrs from his fire-red hair, gangly-legged and comfortable in Aziraphale's shade.  
  
"I can draw you a picture, if you like." Crawley adds a petal of something pink to the small pile of thorns. "You're looking for round, red, juicy - "  
  
Aziraphale is silent and settled back in his roots, but the thrum of exasperation is deliberate and hopefully clearly felt.  
  
"An Angel, inventing an Earthly pleasure from whole cloth, so a demon can tempt God's own creation into...what, exactly?" Another petal, this time white. "Are you _sure_ your side knows what it's doing?"  
  
He waves his hand over the pile of petals and burrs and thorns and it sinks into the dirt. The roots of the Tree stretch beneath him in response. He puts his hand on the base of the trunk, the bark rough under his fingertips, and under _that_ a clumsy, boundless love. White-hot and holy and like a sword being plunged through him. He clenches his fist and then shifts, the snake rising in his place.  
  
The humans stir, move together guilelessly. The smaller one is watching him. He slides up, wraps around the boughs. Bends the branches, curling closer to where green is budding, where fruit is swelling, ripening, reddening. She's still watching him. She's almost curious. Nearly, nearly. It won't happen now, but soon enough. He opens his mouth and sinks his fangs into an apple, listening to the leaves chatter above him.

 

* * *

  
  
"You're getting better at this, Angel."  
  
Aziraphale stifles a smile. It's not that he's proud, of course; it's not that he's weak to the flattery of a demon. "Oh. Thank you, I suppose. You're - quite wily. Very good at the evil... wiles."  
  
"Still needs work, though," Crawley continues blithely. "Something's missing. A certain je ne sais quoi. Can angels eat?"

"We don't need to, no." Aziraphale frowns, feeling wrong-footed and slightly ruffled in the feathers.  
  
Crawley slips to Serpent long enough to writhe up Aziraphale's calf, along his thigh and around his belly before dropping Back with a snap of the fingers and the whip of wings spreading wide. "It's not about need, Angel. Haven't you been paying attention? It's about _want_." He somehow manages to saunter backwards, the thicket parting for him.  
  
Aziraphale stands very still and watches him go. "Are you trying to tempt me?"  
  
"Is it working?"  
  
A pause, a consideration. Aziraphale follows wordlessly, the path closing behind them.

 

* * *

 

Paradise, down by the river. An angel tiptoes in a demon's footsteps, across the water and through the mud and the tangled vines.  
  
"Is it evil?" Aziraphale approaches cautiously, primly.  
  
"It's a blackberry bush," Crawley says. "Yes, I made it, so technically...Not everything is - nevermind. Just. Try?"  
  
"Are you teaching me how to be tempting? Or tempted? Or - "  
  
"Yes! No! Does it matter?" Crawley sighs, runs his hands through his unnecessarily luxurious hair. "One way or another we need to get through this, and I don't know about your side, but mine is getting _just a smidge_ impatient." He plucks a berry from the bush and cups it gently, a strange and not particularly demonic energy buzzing around him.  
  
Aziraphale frowns, lips pursed. He reaches out gingerly, takes the offering from Crawley's outstretched hand. Their skin almost touches; Crawley almost flinches. He considers the fruit, and considers how it sits differently in his own hand, in the flushed rose-gold plumpness his form is aching towards. Might as well, he supposes. He shrugs, and grins, and pops the blackberry into his mouth. Takes the time to savor, to, well, _enjoy_. Bright, sweet, Earth-y, more-ish. He grins again, lips and teeth stained purple.  
  
"I do hope," Crawley says in a discomfitingly private voice, "that this time Upstairs has sent someone who understands that if humanity's Fall is to be chosen by them then the mechanism ought to be desirable."  
  
Flicking his gaze between the bush and the demon, Aziraphale opens his mouth to say something, he hasn't decided what yet, and then the sky catches fire.

 

* * *

  
  
_Bye_ , Crawley thinks as he drops back into the undergrowth. _Not worth it. Bye-bye._

 

* * *

  
  
"HOW'S IT GOING, CHAMP?" Gabriel screams from on high. His wheels are distinctly lilac in hue, his swords shimmering and sharpened for war. The window looks enormous from down here.  
  
Aziraphale starts, steps in front of his very first breakfast and an adorably teeny snake with what might be guilt, if guilt exists before it's been properly invented. "Um, ah, that is to say - "  
  
"WE WERE JUST HOPING TO MEET THE PROJECTIONS FOR THIS QUARTER, KINDA BANKIN' ON YOU SEALING THE DEAL HERE."  
  
"Yes, well - "

The wheels align and stop with a mighty, heavenly clang. "GREAT! WE'LL BE IN TOUCH! GOOD LUCK! BREAK A LEG! HA HA!" Gabriel stares down unblinking as the window crackles and drifts back into the aether.

 

* * *

 

  
Aziraphale settles into his roots and lets his branches grow, his boughs sway. God's love and her Word in the sunlight, in the shade beneath him. The human is watching, again. Earth on the verge. This is important, this is how it starts. Almost time, now, to leave the Garden.  
  
Crawley grins, pulling thorns from his hair, before he shifts. The Tree bends beneath him - he moves to where the green is budding, where the apple is growing, round and red. He sinks his teeth through the skin of it, into the flesh. Juice on his chin and leaves moving in the still air.  
  
"Knew you had it in you," he says. He leans in, pushes the apple low enough to pluck. He beckons; they wait. Humanity will come when she's ready. And after, well. They'll burn that bridge when they come to it.


End file.
